


A Theory

by athirstygoil



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Horror, Psychological Horror, Surreal, implication of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23725915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athirstygoil/pseuds/athirstygoil
Summary: Underfell Sans meets another skeleton on a hot afternoon. Talking ensues.
Kudos: 4





	A Theory

**Author's Note:**

> This short fic is an experiment in genre writing for me. Again, one of those old ones from 2017 when I had more ideas started than completed. I don’t know if I’ll write more of this style. I mean, it’s kinda repetitive, but poetry can be too right?

It’s late afternoon when Sans spots him. Sprawled out on the street corner, barely shaded by a stop sign. His jacket lays unzipped and his shorts disheveled. Dirtied socks slip down his thin ankles and his faded shoes are caked with mud. Sans’ brow ridge wrinkles. 

“hey. hey buddy,” he grunts uncomfortably. Lowering himself to inspect the other skeleton, Sans nudges him with the tip of his shoe. The one on the ground elicits a weak groan and rolls slightly away from the intrusion. “c’mon,” Sans insists. “ya can’t stay here. get up.” An unhappy grunt and white eyelights reignite in his otherwise hollow sockets.

“whaddya want,” the skeleton mutters. “can’t a skeleton take a decent nap round these parts?”

“not in public ya can’t,” Sans counters. “and not like that. c’mon.” Offering a hand, Sans grins. “wouldn’t want a royal guard comin’ now wouldja?” 

“the guard won’t do shit,” the white-eyed skeleton scoffs. “they’re all gone anyway. they’ve been disbanded for years.” Sans’ brow ridge furrows as he lowers his offered hand.

“and where’d ya hear that from?” he asks, “a talking weed?”

“as a matter of fact i did,” the other skeleton snorts. “was a rude bastard too. tried to make off with my skull once. didn’t get very far. could say i was in over my head.” Sans finds himself chuckling. 

“well i'll make sure to send you off with a good weed whacker buddy.” 

“don’t patronize me,” the other skeleton slurs. “i don’t need yer ‘consoling hand’ bullshit.”

“hey buddy _hey_. i ain’t calling nothing.” Sans assures him calmly. “seeing a talking weed here is as common as those whimsuns and froggits. usually they don’t say much though.” The other skeleton sighs loudly.

“yer just gonna say ‘m crazy or some shit.” Sans grins and shakes his head.

“nah man wouldn’t do that for the stars.” The skeleton on the ground pauses, as if to muse over his statement. “tell ya what,” offers Sans, “how’s about i treat ya to a burger? i know a good place.”

“ain’t been a lot of good places in the world,” the skeleton mutters, “been harsh really.” 

  
  


“yeah, i get that,” Sans shrugs in agreement. “but sometimes we gotta make the most of the good times while we got’em.” Slowly, the splayed skeleton lifts himself up with his elbows. 

“yer nice ta talk to,” he points out. “no one usually listens to me fer very long,” he chuckles, as if recalling a memory. “call me crazy, they usually say.” Sans smiles thoughtfully.

“well i ain’t gonna call ya crazy. we’ve all been through shit. very easy to forget all the happenings.”

“heh. ‘happenings.’ why don’t cha call it what it is and say resets?” Sans flinches.

“we don’t...talk about them no more,” he admits stiffly, carefully. His teeth grit slightly. “no one really does.”

“but you _do_ know bout them yeah?” the other skeleton presses, as he sat up to face Sans. “everyone else calls bullshit whenever i mention’em. but i know the truth.” Dirty phalanges firmly grip the fabric on Sans’s upper arms. “ _we_ know the truth.” 

“hey buddy ya gotta keep it to yerself,” he advises with a hiss, “ain’t no one gonna wanna pay yer sorry ass outta the pad.”

“oh i don’t need anyone to believe me now,” the other skeleton laughs. “i got you. you’re all i need.”

“fer what?”

It’s like a light has struck the other skeleton. His eyelights beam with a sudden shine that takes Sans aback. For a moment, it’s like Sans misjudged his acquaintance's initial stupor.

“my theory,” he proudly states.

“what… _kind_ of theory?” Sans asks slowly.

“you and i--we that are reset-aware. we _understand._ we _know_ when they happen. by the void we even remember everything that happened in each one!”

“yeah but it don’t mean i blab about it on a daily basis!” Sans retorts. “i seen deep shit buddy. and i don’t know what i'd do if my bro wasn’t around to help me cope.”

“that’s exactly where my theory comes in!” he continues, “those reset-aware and not reset-aware experience them differently! so it would just feel like deja vú if you weren’t reset-aware. but _it won’t if you are_.”

“well yeah clearly you’re living the same damn day over and over.”

“but the small instances of change--they make all the difference, don’t they?”

“i guess, yeah.”

“why don’t i just...show you?”

“show me what?”

\----

It’s late afternoon when Sans spots him. Sprawled out on the street corner, barely shaded by a stop sign. His jacket lays unzipped and his shorts disheveled. Dirtied socks slip down his thin ankles and his faded shoes are caked with mud. Sans’ brow ridge wrinkles.

“what in the void...?” Sans shuffles to the figure on the ground, to assess him, to investigate, to clear his head. He balances on his ankles as Sans lowers himself to inspect the skeleton before him. “what did you do?” Sans frowns, his teeth a defensive snarl inching its way out. The skeleton on the ground grunts before his eyelights ignite within his empty sockets.

“now do you understand?” His white eyelights glow so brightly they’re smoking.

“no--” Sans interjects. “i-if anything, ‘m even _more_ confused!”

“you need to try again,” the skeleton grins widely, white eyelights now taking up the entirety of his sockets.

From Sans’ field of vision, everything becomes white.

\---

It’s late afternoon when Sans spots him. Sprawled out on the street corner, barely shaded by a stop sign. His jacket lays unzipped and his shorts disheveled. Dirtied socks slip down his thin ankles and his faded shoes are caked with mud. Sans’ brow ridge wrinkles before he breaks into a run in the opposite direction.

“you can’t run from this you know,” a voice behind him taunts, almost sadistically nonchalant. A steady, mirthless tone. “it’s like running away from yourself.”

“shut the fuck up!” Sans cries out, as the white engulfs him again.

\---

It’s late afternoon when Sans spots him. Sprawled out on the street corner, barely shaded by a stop sign. His jacket lays unzipped and his shorts disheveled. Dirtied socks slip down his thin ankles and his faded shoes are caked with mud. Sans’ brow ridge wrinkles, before he looks down at his hands.

His eyelights flare red as Sans runs toward the prone skeleton, and wraps his hands around his cervical vertebrae.

“you tell me what the fuck yer doing or stars so help me, i'll make this fucking stop sign yer _grave_.” The skeleton merely grins, sockets closing partially in an amused smile.

“what makes ya think it isn’t already?” he asks, as everything blurs white.

\---

It’s late afternoon when Sans spots him. Sprawled out on the street corner, barely shaded by a stop sign. His jacket lays unzipped and his shorts disheveled. Dirtied socks slip down his thin ankles and his faded shoes are caked with mud. Sans’ brow ridge wrinkles as he slaps a palm against his face.

Sharp phalanges dig into the cranial sutures of his skull as he dares to look at the skeleton on the ground.

“why are ya doing this?” he demands, though it comes out a whisper. “what have you ta _gain_ by keeping me here?”

“why, _you_ of course,” the skeleton replies, not bothering to lift his skull off the asphalt. “it’s been so long since i've had good company. y’said it yourself,” he adds the beginnings of a wicked grin crossing his teeth, “gotta hold on to the good things while we have’em, right?”

“yeah, but there’s nothing _good_ about holding me hostage here,” Sans protests. “there’s nothing _new_ unless we make it ourselves!”

The skeleton’s face suddenly appears right in front of Sans.

“ _exactly.”_

\---

Sans sees the stop sign at the corner of his socket and stops. His shoulders tense and he fights to keep his skull steadily facing forward. Slowly, ever so slowly, he backs away from the street corner.

He can feel his soul beating loudly in the back of his skull as he turns and runs.

Once he's out of view, a pair of white eyelights blink awake, otherwise shrouded in darkness.

"next time," the skeleton smiles patiently, longingly, before his prone form disappears. "we’ll get him next time."


End file.
